


Ghost Light

by Ruth_Devero



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 22:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruth_Devero/pseuds/Ruth_Devero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chakotay and Paris haven't even <i>thought</i> they should have a romance ... but someone has.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Light

All she really wanted was long soak in a tub of hot water. A bear of a day, and the one thing guaranteed to melt it out of her muscles was a long soak in hot, hot, _hot_ water. That holoprogram of the hot springs on Mount Sijori, up to her neck in steaming black waters under the tiny open-air pavilion, languidly watching snow fall all around. Or the wonderfully silly tree house tub in the Adube Forest: at night, alight with fireflies under the sky-spanning blaze of the N’ka nebula; or in daylight, with those rainbow-colored flying lizards chittering among the leaves.

Or maybe all three. It had been one horrible week in the Delta Quadrant.

She was halfway into holodeck two before she realized that something wasn’t right. The computer had assured her that the deck was free, but someone’s program was still running. She allowed herself a snort of annoyance and strode toward the faded green curtain that blocked the way. Someone was about to get a diplomatically worded ear full.

Which is how the captain of the U.S.S. _Voyager_ nearly walked in on her first officer and her chief helmsman indulging in an activity that was very definitely not in Starfleet’s officers’ manual.

Kathryn Janeway froze. Her right hand tightened on the green curtain. Rustic room lit with a handful of oil lamps. Bed. And on it— _Out of here get out of here_ , one part of her brain said in a strangled voice. On it, two men— _Get out of here_. —naked, gleaming with sweat— _Kathryn Janeway, get out of here NOW_. Her feet obeyed, stepping back.

The curtain closed. But her hand still clutched it; she couldn’t seem to let go, couldn’t seem to move away; she could still see them in her mind’s eye: both men gilded by lamp light, Tom Paris on his knees with Chakotay behind him, thrusting between Paris’s thighs. Ancient Greeks. They used that position. One of Chakotay’s hands busy with one of Paris’s nipples while the other pumped Paris’s erect cock. Yes, she’d seen that position pictured on— Paris gripping the headboard with one hand, while— —pictured on, was it a vase?— —while the other hand reached back to knead Chakotay’s buttock. —or maybe pictured on a drinking vessel of some kind. In a book. Somewhere.

She closed her eyes, tried to catch her breath. She should just walk out of here, leave them their privacy. But her hand convulsively gripped the green cloth, and her heart wasn’t racing just because she was startled. With her eyes closed, the scene was even clearer. Beautiful. So beautiful. Muscular bodies glowing golden. The light head partly eclipsed by the dark one; Paris’s head flung back against Chakotay’s shoulder while Chakotay nibbled, kissed, sucked on Paris’s shoulder, his neck. And, eyes closed, she could concentrate on the sounds: the measured creaking of the bed, a breathy keening that sounded like Paris; Chakotay’s rhythmic groans. The sounds sharpened, got louder, came faster. Faster still, and louder; and louder still, and still she couldn’t move, still she gripped the curtain, eyes closed, lungs heaving, while the sounds in the room came clearer, came harsher; and then the two men cried out—

And silence. A complete silence during which Janeway struggled for breath. Then, shame flooded her. _Kathryn Janeway, this doesn’t become you_. This was voyeurism of the lowest order. She tasted bitter disgust. _Loathsome_ — There weren’t words.

She opened her aching hand and stepped back as quietly as she could. She would never forgive herself if she humiliated them with the knowledge of her presence. Enough that she’d humiliated herself in her own eyes.

Except that something nagged her. Something about the curtain and about the computer—and about Tom Paris—

“Computer, locate Ensign Paris,,” she said, safe in the corridor.

“Ensign Paris is in the mess hall.”

On one of his midnight raids. He was going to have to watch that; the snacking had caught up with him before— She looked into the holodeck. So it was Chakotay. Damn. This kind of program was the worst breach of ethics, and entirely unlike him. And she couldn’t discuss it without revealing what she’d seen. And heard. And—

“Computer, locate Commander Chakotay.”

“Commander Chakotay is in his quarters.”

Her heart sank. This was even worse, and when she found out who—

“Computer, whose program is currently running in holodeck two?”

“No program is currently running in holodeck two.”

But— She looked back into the holodeck, at the curtain—not even pleated where she had gripped it—at golden lamp light spilling under it across the wooden floor. Ice settled into her stomach.

Such a cozy scene to be so ominous.

——

“What kind of program?” Chakotay asked.

Oh, you would ask— “A program of a—of a very personal nature.”

Drat. There was that gleam of carefully unexpressed amusement. She felt her cheeks grow warm and lifted her chin in her best no-nonsense stare. Chakotay, you’ll never find out from _me_. “The program itself isn’t important,” she went on.

“I disagree.” Tuvok, as polished as if he hadn’t just been awakened at 0018 hours. “It may hold clues as to its origin.”

There was no way she would allow anyone else to see what was going on in holodeck two. “It’s a very—intimate moment between two members of the crew,” Janeway said. “If possible, I’d like to keep the details—on the holodeck.”

And, double damn, the amusement in Chakotay’s eyes was being joined by calculation; and a little speculative smile curved Tom Paris’s lips; and B’Elanna Torres covered a grin; and Tuvok’s raised eyebrow signalled more than just intrigue with an intellectual puzzle; and even the very mature Harry Kim had turned scarlet; and every damn one of them was wondering if he or she was one of the holoparticipants. Except for Seven of Nine, who gazed at the others around the table with one of her patented puzzled looks. And of everyone in that room, Seven probably had the most right to expect to be part of someone’s lascivious holoprogram.

“Our first order of business is to discover just how the imager can be projecting without a program running.” Janeway made her voice as dry as possible. “Holodeck two is _off limits_ for the time being. And I would like to keep this—this problem among ourselves, if possible. This ship already has enough sources of gossip and speculation. We need to get this problem solved, and get it solved fast. If that’s all—”

And she wasn’t at all surprised that Chakotay lingered as the others left. “Commander?” she said, steeling herself.

“The—participants. I think as ship’s counselor it would be useful to know who they are.”

“I prefer to keep that to myself. For now.”

But that man never could resist a challenge. He gave her that half head tilt with the tiny smile that sometimes made her want to nail him with a kiss and sometimes made her want to nail him with a solid right hook. “Is it—us?”

She let her silence answer him and was shamefully pleased to see disappointment flicker across his face.

“Someone—unexpected, then.”

Very. She gazed levelly at him.

“Kathryn ….” Oh, that low, coaxing voice that could melt a woman’s knees.

“Commander.” She encased the word in ice.

Which didn’t even chill him. His eyes gleamed mischief. “I’ll find out,” he said.

 _Not from me, you won’t_.

——

“Think it’s—us?” Paris asked. The locked doors of holodeck two drew his eyes, as if he could see past them if he just angled right.

B’Elanna grinned up at him from beside the open access panel. Her eyes were puffy with lack of sleep, but that somehow just made her sexier. “Don’t think so,” she said. “I think the captain would have been able to mention it. We’re not exactly a secret.”

Though it _had_ been a long time: not since last planetfall. He’d just been so—so damned _busy_ —

“We’re not here to speculate.” Tuvok’s dry voice could shrivel a bull in mid-rut.

“ _I’m_ laying odds it’s Harry and—” Now, who was the least likely sex partner? One that would amuse B’Elanna. “—and Neelix.” B’Elanna’s laugh warmed him. “Or Neelix and Tuvok,” he murmured into her ear, which made her stifle a whoop.

“I heard that, ensign.” Tuvok’s tone could castrate the bull at thirty paces. Damn Vulcan ears. “Perhaps you would like to assist Commander Chakotay in Jeffries Tube 13.”

Shit.

Tuvok straightened and gave him a lieutenant’s glare. “Ensign Paris, that wasn’t a suggestion.”

So it was Chakotay and Jeffries Tube 13. Close quarters, and Chakotay was always just his favorite person to be stuck in a Jeffries Tube with.

“So, who did you come up with?” Chakotay asked, handing Paris a tricorder.

“What?”

“Who did you come up with that annoyed Tuvok enough to send you here?”

Smart ass. “Him and Neelix.”

Chakotay didn’t laugh, but he sure had an infectious grin.

“How did you know?” asked Paris.

“I’ve known you for a lot of years. Check conduit nine.”

Conduit nine wasn’t that interesting. “Who do _you_ think it is?”

“We’re not here to speculate. What about conduit fifteen?”

Fifteen wasn’t even as interesting as nine. And he had to get right next to Chakotay to check it. That soap smelled good on him; Paris would have to ask what it was. “Chakotay, you _know_ you want to know.”

“My knowing won’t get the problem fixed.”

“You think it’s you and the—”

My god, Chakotay’s stony glare could squelch him even when he wasn’t looking.

“—ambassador from Cardassia?” Have to think quick to save your ass, Paris.

Chakotay made a sort of snort that sounded half laugh. “I bet not,” he said. “Check the t-junctions.”

He’d gotten Chakotay to almost laugh. Paris grinned. T-junction one: boring. T-junction two: boringer. T-junction three: deadly dull. T-junction four: bor—hello.

“Well, isn’t _that_ interesting.” Chakotay checked t-junctions five through seven himself. “ _Very_ interesting.”

“It’s the same in all the bundles,” Paris said, looking at his readings. “Three out of the seven are inactive.”

“The three involved in the matter conversion subsystem. All the holoimage is is sound and optics. No matter. Just illusion.”

“Too bad,” said Paris. “No threesome,” he said to Chakotay’s icy silence.

That snort again. Jeez—roust Chakotay out of bed at an unholy hour, and he’s punchy enough to laugh at anything. Now, if Paris could just get a really good belly laugh out of him, that would make life just well nigh perfect.

——

“But I touched—” Damn—she could hear the amused quirk of Chakotay’s mouth even over the comm link. “There was a curtain,” Janeway said briskly. “I took hold of it. At least—at least I think I did.” But there was no sense memory of the cloth itself, and it hadn’t even been marked where she’d clutched it so desperately. “There was definitely a curtain, but I have no memory at all of whether or not it had substance.”

“Well, the matter conversion subsystem is definitely inactive—”

“Uh, oh.” Paris’s voice was muffled as it came through Chakotay’s comm badge. Then he must have tapped his own, for what he said next was clear as crystal. “Captain, the t-junctions for the imagery subsystem of holodeck one just activated.”

Uh, oh, indeed.

“And there go the ones for the speakers. Whatever’s going on has sound effects.”

Damn. It had spread to another holodeck.

And anything—just anything—could be happening there right now.

——

Ensign Kim. Check holodeck one. Check holodeck one, Ensign Kim. Mr. Kim, check holodeck one. Tom gets to go mess with the panels near holodeck two. Where the action is, as usual. As usual, Ensign Kim gets shunted off to where the action _isn’t_.

He sighed, focused on the tricorder, frowned in official Star Fleet concentration. It was damned early. Damned late, actually; he’d just fallen into bed when the captain—

He walked through the bead curtain without even noticing, not even hearing the tinkle of tiny glass bells threaded in among the beads, swaying in a holographic breeze he didn’t feel. Readings normal for a holodeck where nothing was happen—

A moan—languid, soft—snapped his attention from the tricorder.

Breasts. Naked. Seven. Seven of Nine was naked, facing him, head dropped back to expose the lovely throat, luscious mouth open in soft moans, sweat trickling between the firm and perfect breasts, sheening the waist so tiny he could span it with both hands, glistening on the muscular thighs working, working, working so hard as she rode and rode a man on a well-used bed. Harry Kim swallowed hard.

Seven, riding—and as he watched, she arched in an orgasm so beautiful to watch, he couldn’t breathe for a minute, couldn’t think, had to remind his heart to start again. And the man—there was a man there—some guy there under her, being ridden by the most exquisite— The man moaned, and Harry’s gaze was ripped from that naked perfection. The man. The man under Seven was—himself.

Harry Kim dropped the tricorder.

——

“Offline. I want those holodecks offline _now_. All of them. And shut down. I want the power generators shut down. I don’t want _any_ possibility that the holodecks will start up again before we’ve fixed the problem.” Janeway was adamant.

Chakotay watched Harry Kim, discreetly. Behind the ensign’s careful show of cool professionalism was the expression of someone who’d been hit by a very large rock. Seven of Nine. Since Kim had come to the meeting, he’d studiously looked at everyone but Seven. So whatever had happened on the holodeck had involved her. Probably in exquisite detail. Chakotay could imagine the detail.

“Captain, I believe that would not be wise.” Tuvok, being logical. “Since we do not understand what is creating the phenomenon, it would be best to continue to observe. I’m sure we can count on everyone in this room to be—discreet.”

Chakotay looked at Tom Paris. Paris was the perfect picture of bland, blond innocence, though there was that spark in the blue eyes that used to make Chakotay want to pop him one. Flicker of a dimple at the edge of Paris’s mouth: he’d squelched some humorous thought. The eyes went carefully blank. _I know exactly what you’re thinking, Paris_. Really, if you just looked and used your head, that face was a wide-open database.

Janeway gave a frustrated sigh. “Good point. But take the readings from the systems. I don’t think there’s much point in observing inside the holodecks themselves. If we can help it.” She carefully ignored their startled—and apprehensive—faces. “Dismissed.”

Chakotay caught the glance she sent his way. “Harry,” he said quietly. He watched Kim’s shoulders droop; but the ensign obediently stayed behind as everyone else left the briefing room. A glance of commiseration—and naked curiosity—from Paris as he went out the door. Poor Kim was going to be pumped for every detail once the two were alone. Chakotay would have to keep them apart as long as possible.

“So—who was it, Ensign?” Best to keep things brisk.

“Sir, it was—” _Easy, Kim. Ignore the fact that your face matches the red on my uniform_. “It was—Seven, sir. And—and me.”

 _Lucky man, Kim!_ “Thank you, Ensign. That must have been—startling.” To see yourself having sex—”startling” would be an understatement.

“Yes, sir. It was. Really, _really_ startling.”

But Kim would handle it. Chakotay looked at him with pride. The ensign had grown a lot in the last handful of years. He would handle this.

“Dismissed. Though I would stay away from Tom Paris for a while—just until he gets his curiosity under control.”

Wry grin from Kim, headed for the doorway. “Which should be about the time we get back to the Alpha Quadrant, sir.”

Chakotay chuckled and entered the bridge. No Janeway. He nodded at Rollins, in the command chair, smiled blandly at O’Donnell, manning the helm, entered the ready room on the other side of the bridge. Behind her desk, Janeway raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“It was Seven of Nine. And Ensign Kim.”

And, by god, if she didn’t relax then; under the wry amusement was an almost palpable relief. Hmmm.

“Poor Harry,” Janeway said with a wince, though she didn’t lose the smile.

“Not who you were expecting?”

Amusement turned chilly. “Thank you for the report, Commander Chakotay.”

“I’ll find out eventually.”

“Not from _me_ , you won’t.”

And two seconds after he’d left the ready room, it dawned on him what those last words and her closed-mouthed attitude implied. That he’d probably been one of the participants. But not with her.

And, if not with Janeway, then with—whom?

——

—with Paris. Only a combination like that could have shell shocked Harry. Or both Delaneys with _Seven of Nine_ — Paris’s brain shorted out for a second with the images _that_ conjured up. Or Seven of Nine with—Janeway? Naw—too old. B’Elanna. For an instant, he could feast on the image, but the feast faded fast. Too close to reality. B’Elanna. Something had gone wrong between him and B’Elanna, and he didn’t even know what it was. Or how to fix it.

Or if he wanted to.

Paris fiddled with his soup some more. Across the mess hall table, B’Elanna slumped with the exhaustion of somebody who’d been up far too late. Cranky. She always got cranky when she got the least bit tired. He’d stay out of range.

“—so, if the matter conversion subsystem is not activating,” Tuvok was explaining, “that explains why Ensign Kim’s tricorder did not record anything unusual. It’s fortunate that he was scanning when the—program commenced.”

Not lucky for Harry. Jeez—Harry, maybe seeing himself and—and Seven of Nine? Harry and— Paris swallowed some soup and a smile. Harry and Chakotay?

“Still speculating, I see.” Chakotay slid into the chair beside him. My god, was the man a mind reader?

“Just—thinking. And eating.” And trying not to think about his fucked-up love life.

Paris choked on the next spoonful of soup, because the dimly lit mess hall suddenly filled with fireflies.

Fireflies. Blinking green fireflies, arching, swooping, flickering all around them. He stared, delighted.

B’Elanna straightened. “Oh, they’re beautiful!”

Beside Paris, Chakotay was smiling. About as close to joy uncontrolled as he ever expressed.

Tuvok was the only one not mesmerized. He frowned at his tricorder, and while Paris watched, he reached out to snag an insect.

Which flew right through his hand.

For some reason, that took some of the fun out of the moment. Paris put down his spoon and closed his hand around a couple of fireflies. They didn’t notice. He waved his hand, watching half a dozen little lights pass right through it. The air current he created didn’t even stir them. Like ghosts of fireflies.

And then they zoomed toward each other and coalesced into a vague shape before vanishing. But something—someone—moved in a shadow.

“Lights up,” Chakotay said.

The lights brightened.

And there stood Kes. The Kes who’d come aboard _Voyager_ at the very beginning: awkward, beguiling, unused. She stretched, eyes closed, smiling at some secret thought, not even noticing that they were there.

And then she blurred into—

An African man and woman made much of a baby who wanted nothing more than to grasp the man’s nose. They laughed, tickled the baby, blurred—

Paris couldn’t watch any more. The images were so personal, so—intimate. And, what if he saw—

“ _Gaaah!_ ” B’Elanna, choking on her coffee, so Paris really had to look.

At Captain Janeway and—and Gerron in such an unprofessional tableau that it was just embarrassing.

“Holo-emitter.” Chakotay was looking away. His voice sounded a bit strangled. He had to speak up; the images were—noisy. “There’s a holo-emitter in here—remember? So the Doctor could answer emergencies here. Before he got the portable emitter. Holo-emitters seem to be common element.”

“Yes, but—” Tuvok was looking speculatively at the big dog romping with the Captain’s ex-fiance, which had thank goodness replaced the Captain and— _Gerron?_ who the hell would pair her with _Gerron?_ “But, what impulse is controlling the images? And why are they forming?”

And why wasn’t Harry here, to see himself—fully-clothed—kissing Megan Delaney so tenderly, so joyfully? One damned sweet image; Paris would tell him about it.

But not about Suder—my god, Lon Suder, the psycho. Paris hadn’t thought of him in years and didn’t really want to see him now, head cocked to listen to his voices, clothes soaked with blood.

“Computer! Take the holo-emitter in the mess hall offline!” Chakotay barked.

“Acknowledged.”

And it all blinked out. Paris felt shaky. Too much—it was like looking into somebody’s unedited thoughts. Just too damn much.

“Engineering to Lieutenant Torres.” The voice was small and shaky.

“Torres here.”

“Lieutenant—uh—where are you?”

She sighed. “I’m in the mess hall, Boylan. Where did you _think_ I was?”

There was a very long pause. “I—I could swear I just saw you _here_. You—seemed mad at Samtha. You— Maybe I’d better go to sickbay.”

“Turn off the holo-emitter in Engineering.”

There was an even longer pause. “Uh—okay, Lieutenant. Boylan out.”

B’Elanna was doing that deep breathing that meant she was trying not to lose it entirely. “I’ll be in Engineering. Explaining. A lot.”

Poor Boylan. Paris remembered how furious B’Elanna was the day Samtha had screwed up the newly refurbished antimatter reactant injector by failing to keep track of readings. Feeding her to the warp core in tiny pieces was the nicest thing B’Elanna had wanted to do to her.

“Computer,” said Chakotay, “take all holo-emitters on the ship offline.”

“Acknowledged.”

There went the Doctor.

“Janeway to Chakotay.”

“Chakotay here.”

“I think you’d better come take a look at what we’ve just found.”

A gelpack. One of the bioneural gelpacks, in a color not normally found in bio-engineered nature.

“Another virus?” Chakotay hazarded.

“A preliminary scan says no. But I want the Doctor to have a look at it.”

Damn. Not the gelpacks again. Indispensable, and, in the Delta Quadrant, irreplaceable.

“So, Harry,” Paris said when Janeway and Chakotay had gone to sickbay with the gelpack, “what did you see on holodeck one?”

“We’re supposed to look at all the gelpacks. _All_ of them.”

“Yeah. Look—tell me what you saw on holodeck one, and I’ll tell you what you were doing in the mess hall just now.”

Oh, yeah, _that_ got him. Paris knew his Harry Kim. Harry’s eyes went wide, and his cheeks went red. He was conjuring up just all _kinds_ of things he could have been up to in the mess hall.

“The mess hall? You saw my image in the mess hall? Was I—with anybody? Was it embarrassing?”

“You were kissing Megan Delaney.” Tuvok’s dry tone made it sound as if they’d been picking wild flowers. “Ensign Paris, you are to check gelpacks, not disseminate gossip.”

Gossip. It wasn’t gossip if you were talking to one of the people concerned. Who had a pleased and dreamy look in his eyes as he went to work. Way to go, Harry.

Paris found himself smiling as he started the scans. Who _had_ Harry seen in holodeck one? Himself and Megan Delaney—and Jenny Delaney? _Paris_ and Megan? Paris and himself? Paris and—and—and _Chakotay?_

Who?

——

“Not a virus.” The Doctor had been very definite about that—after his tantrum about being taken offline and online like some cheap pleasure-holo. “Some sort of chemical reaction. The chemistry of the gelpack has changed.” Janeway looked at the faces around the table. Most were starting to look as haggard as she felt. First shift was about to begin, and they still hadn’t solved their problem.

“As has every gelpack in use on the ship,” she went on. “Which implies that it spreads via contact, probably through the air.”

“So it was something different in the air after we— The most recent thing that happened was planetfall on Amarth, isn’t it?” said Chakotay. “Our last shore leave. But we didn’t bring anything on board; the plant life wasn’t suitable for long-term storage.”

“But it was tasty,” Paris said with a sigh.

It was, especially the lurath blossoms, the mainstay of the Logaath diet. Lurath blossoms raw, lurath blossoms baked, lurath blossoms steamed, lurath blossoms fried ….

“It has to be the lurath blossoms,” Janeway said.

“But we didn’t bring any on board,” said Torres.

“Yes, we did. We brought them aboard in ourselves. Most of us ate lurath blossoms at every meal we had on the planet.” That was it—it _had_ to be!

It was.

“Everyone,” the Doctor said firmly. “The blood of every crew member I’ve analyzed so far shows trace elements very similar to those in the gelpacks. In very small concentrations, but the elements are there. Presumably, much of the chemical has already been flushed from the crew members’ systems.”

“So we infected the gelpacks.”

“Well, Captain, ‘infected’ is not exactly accurate—”

“But that’s the general effect.”

“Yes. Respirations, secretions—the body chemistry of _Voyager_ ’s crew members apparently affected the gelpacks.”

“Can you come up with an antidote?”

“In time.”

“Get on it.” Oh, she was tired. She could drink about ten cups of coffee right about now.

How nice that a mug of it materialized in the replicator unit right next to her in the medical lab.

“Hmmm,” said the Doctor. He scanned it with a tricorder.

The coffee steamed slightly. Janeway reached. The mug was solid, and the coffee was the rich, smooth blend she loved.

Just like the one that appeared in the replicator as she watched.

“So, now it’s taken over the replicators,” Chakotay said.

“ ‘Taken over’ is probably not the correct terminology,” the Doctor said. “Remember: the gelpacks are a vital part of the computer system, and the computer controls the replicators. And the—”

“Doc, I have the samples done,” Paris said, coming in from the lab’s work station.

And at that instant, the Doctor’s image blurred—

Thus it was that Janeway was actually on the spot when Paris and Chakotay met their doppelgangers, who were—she was glad to see—in uniform, but who also were kissing hungrily, thoroughly, the holo-Paris gripping the holo-Chakotay’s wrists, freezing some interrupted gesture of protest. And Janeway saw—

Saw the real Paris halt in mid-step—

Saw the real Chakotay’s mouth open in astonishment—

Saw their eyes snap past the holo-images to each other—

Saw surprise shift to appraisal; saw appraisal melt to speculation—

Saw both look away—

And all in the time it took her to draw a shaky breath.

“Computer, take the portable emitter in sickbay offline,” she said as evenly as she could.

“Acknowledged.”

And the image vanished, though she knew that for the three of them in sickbay it was still very much present.

There was a moment during which she drank about half the mug of coffee at one swallow.

“I better—I better look at those samples,” Paris said, turning on his heel.

“Kathryn,” Chakotay said quietly when he had left. “Is that who you saw in holodeck two?”

She took a cleansing breath. “Yes,” she admitted.

He nodded. “Do you have plans for that other cup of coffee?”

She handed it to him. It didn’t have the sugar and cream he liked, but he drank deep.

He no longer looked like a man surprised, and he didn’t look like a man dismayed. What he looked like, Janeway realized with a catch of the heart, was a man who had just had a revelation of an unexpected kind.

——

Shitshitshitshitshit. He and— Chakotay and— Shitshitshitshitshit.

Paris looked at the samples; tried to notice that the samples were there; attempted to remember that samples even existed in the universe.

Shitshitshitshitshit. Was _that_ what the Captain had seen in holodeck two? No—what she’d seen had embarrassed her pretty thoroughly, which meant they’d been doing more than kissing. Shitshitshitshitshit. His hands were shaking. He and Chakotay— Chakotay and he—

Paris finally gave it up, sat in a daze on one of the lab’s stools. Him and Chakotay. Him and— His brain just quit giving him words altogether.

But it didn’t stop giving him images. Richly detailed and absolutely breath-taking.

Shitshitshitshitshit.

——

“Ah!” said the Logaath pilot they waylaid on their way to Amarth. “Yes, yes. Ship bonds with you.” He—or she; it was always hard to tell—tilted its lemur-like head in a gesture of delight.

 _Bond_. Janeway couldn’t breathe for a minute. “You mean, it’s sharing our thoughts?”

“Yesyesyes. You share lurath with ship. Ship shares thoughts with you. You and ship have one thought.”

“Is that how you fly _your_ ships?”

“Yes. Ship brain bonds with pilot. All things that share lurath bond. All that eat lurath on Amarth bond. All bond.”

It took her a second or two to realize what that implied. Every creature they’d seen on Amarth—sentient and non-sentient—seemed to eat lurath blossoms. That everything, from insect to Logaath, was part of one vast network of thought— It was staggering.

“Also, lurath strengthens heart-bond. Beloveds know each other.”

Chakotay straightened at that. Janeway tried not to speculate why.

“This is—an unusual situation for us,” she said. “Will the ship bond with us permanently?” _Please say no_ , she prayed fervently. The prospect of fifty-plus years of outwitting _Voyager_ was excruciating.

The long fingers spread in the Logaaths’s version of a shrug. “Bond fades if pilot stops sharing lurath with ship. All on Amarth eat lurath. So never stop sharing. Ships and pilots always bonded.”

Relief. There was hope. If they could just hold on long enough.

——

“So, the ship is _reading our minds?_ ” Paris asked. Shit.

“Not necessarily,” Tuvok answered. “I believe each incident can be explained by the information the computer is privy to, namely, the psychological profiles of _Voyager_ ’s crew.”

“You mean—” Shitfuck; that wasn’t much better than the other way.

Even across the table, Paris could hear Chakotay stop breathing entirely for an instant. He didn’t look; he didn’t have to. Somehow, where Chakotay was concerned, Paris just knew every damn thought going through the man’s head.

“The manifestations could quite logically be based on our recorded tendencies and desires,” Tuvok went on.

That made just about everyone around the table look as if they’d been stunned by a phaser. Including Janeway. Had she heard about that little scene with Gerron?

“It also would explain why Lon Suder’s image appeared as part of the manifestations,” Tuvok went on. “His psychological profiles are still in the database.”

“But what about the replicator?” Chakotay asked.

“The Captain’s desire for coffee under certain circumstances is no doubt well documented by the ship’s computer,” Seven said smoothly. “It also knew where she was in the ship. The computer simply anticipated her request via the nearest replicator.”

“Which means that the replicators need to be taken offline,” said Janeway. “Or we’ll be up to our ankles in ‘anticipated requests’.” Right on cue, a cup appeared in the briefing room’s replicator. Janeway’s jaw tightened. Paris wasn’t the only one who smothered a grin.

“We may have even more serious problems,” Chakotay said. “Like—”

The sound of _Voyager_ ’s engines shifted subtly, and Paris was on his feet almost before the ship lurched. He actually made it onto the bridge ahead of Janeway.

Damn—the stars were streaking by on the main viewer at something approaching warp 9.5. What the hell—?

Culhane’s hands were frantic at the helm, but nothing was happening. Paris slid into the other station, looked at readings. Warp engines almost off the fucking charts. B’Elanna would hit warp nine, herself.

“Report!” Janeway barked.

“It just—took off!” Culhane sounded unglued. “The engines just—”

“Take the engines offline now!”

“I can’t! The computer won’t respond!”

And, oh fuck, that was so right. The computer was merrily ignoring him. And Paris. _Voyager_ had the bit in her teeth, and she was running with it. Warp 9.674.

Paris’s hands flickered on their own across the conn, while his brain raced through a hundred maneuvers and counter-maneuvers. Damn, it, ship; this is Tom Paris. You don’t ignore me. You just _don’t_.

The ship started to shake.

“Bridge to Engineering!” Janeway shouted. “Prepare to eject the warp core!”

Paris’s heart froze. Ejecting the core at this speed might well be suicide. But it was that or Warp 10 again. Damn it, _Voyager_ ; this is Paris; you _listen_ to me!

And—

“Warp 9.6.” Chakotay’s voice was even. God; the man was a rock. Then, “Ensign Culhane, take your hands off the conn.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Paris saw Culhane whirl to glare at Chakotay. Warp 8.

But Culhane obeyed. Warp 7.1.

Good; Paris was sick of fighting him. Warp 6. Warp 5.

He heard Janeway draw a long breath.

“Full stop,” she said. “And then take it offline.”

And _Voyager_ obediently slid to as sweet a halt as Paris had ever managed, before he took the engines offline. Good girl. He felt shaky, now that it was over; his uniform was sticking to him. He tried not to look at Culhane, sitting beside him in mortified fury.

“Report,” said Janeway.

The litany came in; the orders went out. Paris paid closer attention to the conn than it really needed.

“Chakotay, Paris, my ready room,” Janeway said finally. “Now.”

“Gentlemen, what just happened?” She had that overly calm look that meant she could go either sympathetic or ballistic in .036 seconds.

“She just—started obeying the helm,” Paris said.

“Captain, since Paris is chief helmsman, I think _Voyager_ may be more—responsive to his commands than she is to anyone else,” said Chakotay.

Shit—there was that perturbed quirk of her lips that meant Janeway didn’t know whether to be amused or boiling mad.

“Perhaps. But why did she take off to begin with?”

“I think that, like many on board the ship, Culhane is anxious to return to the Alpha Quadrant.”

“And _Voyager_ picked up on that.”

“Yes.”

Everybody went just dead silent, and then Janeway looked at Paris.

“I guess I’m just not as eager to get back to New Zealand in time for lights out as I thought,” he said. He felt sick. Chakotay was radiating sympathy; he was in the same situation. Probably would be in the same prison. But it was still humiliating: the kid at the party afraid to go home.

“Senior staff meeting,” Janeway said. “We need to know which systems can inadvertently be used against us. And we need to figure out how to neutralize those chemicals before the gelpacks destroy us.”

And they needed luck; but Janeway didn’t have to tell them that.

——

Luck. They needed luck. The kind of luck that meant Kyoto was right, and the lurath-blossom chemicals in the crew’s bodies were diluted enough not to recontaminate the gelpacks after they were cleaned. The kind of luck that meant that B’Elanna’s jury-rigged system to flush the chemicals out of the gelpacks would work. The kind of luck that meant that environmental controls and shields wouldn’t suddenly go haywire in some mysterious fashion and kill the crew.

Chakotay sat quietly in his command chair and tried to look busy. Nothing on the main viewer to watch, once _Voyager_ had obliged them with images of every Federation planet in its data banks: images of the home they so longed for. The usual chatter of communications gone, after a quarter of the crew reported hearing the voices of their families hailing them. Just the ship hanging still in space, with Tom Paris monitoring her whims and coaxing her out of her fancies.

And Chakotay just sitting. He’d argued with Janeway that his place was with her, working on the problem; but she’d insisted one of them be on the bridge, in case something major came up. And he knew better than to try to persuade her out of some scientific tinkering. So he sat.

With nothing much to look at but Tom Paris. The back of that dark-blond head, the glimpse of profile whenever Paris turned to check a readout. Paris had avoided his eyes since the skirmish with the warp engines, but the straightness in his spine meant he was aware of Chakotay’s every move. _Beloveds know each other_. Chakotay turned off that thought and focused on the padd Ensign Golwat had just brought from the Captain. First gelpacks they’d cleaned slightly recontaminated, though nothing they couldn’t handle.

 _Beloveds know each other_. Chakotay folded away that thought and flicked through the scanner readings on his console. The U.S.S. _Enterprise_ was coming out of warp off the port bow. Wonderful—they were saved. Paris’s chuckle when he saw the reading at the helm made Chakotay smile. _Beloveds know each other_.

——

Chakotay’s smile warmed the bridge like a small fire Paris could feel. The _Enterprise_. Nice joke, _Voyager_. Paris deleted the reading, rechecked _Voyager_ ’s attitude in space. That binary star had drifted 10 degrees. He resisted the urge to compensate. It didn’t matter; they weren’t going anywhere for a while. It just mattered that somebody watched, kept track, waited to take action if something happened.

——

Watching. Nothing to watch but Paris, and that was exactly what Chakotay didn’t want to do. _Lurath strengthens heart-bond_. Because watching Paris brought up a lot that Chakotay didn’t want to pursue. Didn’t have time to pursue. _Beloveds know each other_. He closed his eyes for a minute, slid into alpha state. Calm. Focus.

And the second he opened his eyes, there was Paris; and the part of Chakotay’s brain not focused entirely on the ship went to the problem of Tom Paris. He smiled wryly to himself. All right.

——

All right, Paris, focus. But things kept drifting through his head, like, whatever the hell would make the computer think he and Chakotay would make an item? Had the fucking Commander ever shown him more than grudging admiration, that he thought any more of Paris than he did a nicely balanced phaser rifle?

——

Was it _his_ profile the computer had drawn on, to make those images? Or Paris’s? Chakotay frowned at a reading on his console, ordered a rescan, then another. Had Paris indicated by thought or deed that he wanted more than just minimal companionship from Chakotay—that he expected anything more from Chakotay than not being killed by him?

——

Which really wasn’t being fair. _Don’t believe that readout, Paris_. He keyed in a rescan, then another, calculated the difference between the three, and then went with his hunch.

Chakotay wasn’t really like that. He was annoying and repressed and generally a pain in the ass, but sometimes he showed a touch of being human. So, was it Chakotay’s profile the computer used to make those images—or was it Paris’s?

——

He correlated data from four different scanners to decide which was probably closest to being correct.

 _Does it really matter if the impulse was Paris’s, Commander?_ Because that was dodging the real issue. There was the little matter of his own response to that image of himself being kissed—kissed hard—by an insistent Paris, of the images that had filled his head after he realized what Janeway had seen on holodeck two. Himself and Paris under the bright stars of Yndebe Four; Paris’s smile in the light of Turesh’no’or’s double moons; Paris’s mouth soft on his, on just about any planet; and in all of them, all of those images, each and every single damn one, Paris naked, shining with sweat, slick in Chakotay’s arms, moaning, straining, howling, arching, coming hard, coming hard, coming so damn hard it made Chakotay’s knees weak.

_That’s the real issue, isn’t it, Commander?_

——

The holo-Chakotay, surprised by a kiss; the real Chakotay, with a heat in his eyes that melted Paris’s knees—that was really mattered. Not who started it, but the fact that Paris’s head filled with images. Chakotay, Chakotay, Chakotay, on half a dozen planets Paris had visited, and three hundred planets he’d simply dreamed up for sex with Chakotay. Chakotay, naked, insistent, full lips hard against his, tousled hair dripping sweat, hands sliding everywhere, cock hot as the warp core, Chakotay moaning, screaming, coming, coming, coming hard in Paris’s arms.

 _That_ was what mattered.

——

He took the padd from Golwat, cocked a curious eyebrow at her when he saw she was more breathless than necessary.

“We had to stop taking the turbo-lifts,” she explained. “They kept taking us—well, not where we needed to go.”

Chakotay chuckled, and she tossed him a half-flirtatious smile as she left.

 _That was the real issue, wasn’t it?_ That his mind created these images, that his body responded to them, that his heart revelled in them. That was the issue.

——

Yes, _that_ was what mattered.

——

The Captain and her team were switching environmental controls to the newly cleaned circuitry. Chakotay took a deep breath. If this didn’t work, they were pretty much dead.

Once, he had thought that he and the Captain might make a go of it: she was intelligent, competent, beautiful, entirely confident in command. Everything he appreciated in a woman. And she seemed similarly intrigued by him. But somehow it never went anywhere—they were both too focused on getting their somewhat motley crew back to the Alpha Quadrant—and the intrigue had faded over the years. When that ship-eating behemoth led them on with images of their own desires, hers didn’t include him, nor his her. She’d glowed at the news that her ex-fiancee had broken his engagement, and Chakotay hadn’t even blinked: it was simply verification of something already half understood.

——

Himself and B’Elanna. Somehow, what he remembered from an image of a perfect future didn’t include himself with B’Elanna. Sadness flooded him. Had it been then that he and B’Elanna had started to go wrong with each other?

——

Environmental controls flicked offline for a heartbeat, flicked back on. Chakotay studied the readings with his heart in his mouth. Oxygen—good. Temperature—steady all through the ship. At last; there’d been complaints about temperatures fluctuating to suit whoever was in the room. Chakotay felt himself relaxing. It seemed to be working. But—

He moved to mission ops one, checked the readings there. Checked the ones at ops two. Checked them at security. And relaxed. Readings the same. It seemed to be working.

At the helm, Paris’s hands moved smoothly over the conn. Like some recruitment-holo for Starfleet: This is what you can accomplish; this is what you can become, this image of competence and slightly vacuous good looks. This is Starfleet.

——

Chakotay was moving, checking empty stations, being the good commander. It suited him; the uniform suited him. Like some recruiter for Starfleet: This is what you can become; this is what you can accomplish. You can be this image of competence and iron control. This is Starfleet. Pretty damned sexy.

——

Chakotay wandered through the bridge, monitoring readouts. Paris focused on the helm, back perfectly straight, face carefully neutral. _Paris, pressed against the wall of that French dive he’d programmed, sighing as Chakotay’s mouth moved across his throat—_ Chakotay ordered another scan of the cargo bay. _Paris, cupping the back of Chakotay’s head, arching under the gentle onslaught of Chakotay’s mouth on his cock—_ Why Paris? Why—by all that was holy—Paris?

——

Because Paris could—well he could fuck Starfleet. He could fuck him hard. Chakotay’s knees buckling as Paris ran his tongue along his cock— _Shit; that readout doesn’t look right_. Chakotay, laughing into Paris’s mouth as he was backed onto the pool table in Sandrine’s— _You didn’t just trust that scanner, did you, Paris?_

——

Chakotay correlated five scans to decide which to trust. This wasn’t that Paris, the model Starfleet child. Not the desperate admiral’s son showing daddy and Starfleet by flying for the Maquis. Not the untrusting convict on unexpected leave from New Zealand. Not the insolent Lieutenant courting a punch in the mouth with every sentence. Not even the self-righteous would-be savior of the Monean planet. My god, how Chakotay had disliked those Parises.

He settled himself in his chair again, flicked through a dozen readouts. This was another Paris, tempered by accomplishment, by Janeway’s trust, by Harry’s friendship, by B’Elanna’s love. The Doctor’s best med tech. The ship’s best pilot. Naomi Wildman’s perfect older brother: protective, playful. Still full of humor and often irritating as hell, but arrogance faded in the shell-shock of a punishing demotion and thirty days in the brig.

——

And, why the hell? Lieutenant—no, _Ensign_ Paris. Fucking- _Ensign_ Paris now. Lusting after his Commander. Chakotay: Commander Upright. Chakotay: Commander Perfect. Better than Chakotay: Captain Psychotically-Enraged-Maquis. Captain Paranoid. Captain Death-to-Tom-Paris. _Better recheck that, Paris_.

Not that guy any more. Calmer. With a sense of humor. Changed by Janeway’s trust, by the end of Maquis fighting, by the crew’s confidence in him. Still inclined to blow people out of the water with a photon torpedo, but not as arrogant—not after the terror Paris had witnessed during that bout with the aliens of chaotic space.

Something lay beneath the carefully arranged exterior, the smooth hair, the squared shoulders—something most people didn’t see because they didn’t look for it. A wicked glint in the dark eyes, a quickly suppressed quirk of the precise mouth. A general air that if he wanted to, Chakotay could take you places—body, heart, and soul—that most people didn’t know existed. This is what you can become, even after rebellion from Starfleet; this is what you can accomplish. You can be renewed, become this combination of competence and humanity. With a pretty nice ass. This is Starfleet, by way of a long, rocky circle.

 _Well, check it AGAIN, Paris_. Sheez.

——

Chakotay finished his report, handed the padd to Golwat, who was certainly getting her exercise. Something lay beneath the poster-boy looks, if you cared to look beyond them: a knowing quirk to the well-shaped mouth, a cynicism in the blue eyes. A general air of wariness—the bitterness of a man who knew just how quickly good things can get badly fucked up—mixed with the strength of someone who would get up and try again. This is what you can accomplish if you don’t know yourself; this is what you can become, this image of caution and sturdiness and slightly worn handsomeness. This is Starfleet, by way of some pretty big disasters.

 _Beloveds know each other_. Chakotay had been pretty poster-boy-ish himself: the enthusiastic cadet fresh from the colonies, the conscientious student graduating near the top of his class, the over-eager ensign. The outraged colonist infuriated by Starfleet’s betrayal. The bitter Maquis waging a war he knew couldn’t be won. The untrusting commander of a Starfleet vessel under a Starfleet captain. Tempered by accomplishment, by experience, by Janeway’s trust, by Tuvok’s friendship. Arrogance fading in the wake of Vori mind control, of the terror of madness when he let those aliens of chaotic space into his mind. Beloveds know each other, indeed.

——

Damn right.

Tensing up; he hated sitting still, being effectively blind. Binary star at 95 degrees now, and his fingers ached to compensate.

Paris knew this guy, this image of Commander Perfection. He’d been pretty much Perfection himself: the admiral’s perfect son, the perfectly devil-may-care Starfleet cadet, the perfectly brilliant pilot. The total fuck-up who lied about killing three people. The disgraced ex-Starfleet captured as a Maquis. The untrusting convict waiting for someone on _Voyager_ to phaser him out of his misery. Changed by Janeway’s trust, by Harry’s friendship, by B’Elanna’s love. Arrogance blown out of the water after a demotion and thirty days hard time.

Yeah—Paris knew Chakotay pretty well.

——

He read the report Golwat handed him. Making progress. Moving shields to the newly cleaned circuitry, then scanners, then communications. Good. He was exhausted, and it would be a treat to have scanner readouts that actually correlated with reality. And Golwat was looking pretty ragged, even for a Bolian.

Paris rolled his shoulders. Tense. Chakotay let himself imagine just getting up to rub those shoulders himself, loosen them up. _Lurath strengthens heart-bond_. Was that what had happened? A chemical heightening of emotions not yet on the surface? When had he begun to understand what Paris was thinking, was feeling? After shore leave on Amarth—or had it already begun?

——

Maybe since their first meeting—Paris wasn’t sure. But he sure knew him now, knew him well enough to know that Paris would be pretty much on his own in this relationship. That passion would repress itself in the name of command structure, of Starfleet correctness. The Commander might look at the Ensign with lust, but he would never act on it.

——

His heart was racing, and he looked again at readouts, flipping desperately from one system to another to another. Heart-bond. Beloved. Paris. Ensign Thomas Eugene Paris. Ensign. Ensign, ensign, ensign, ensign. Commander Chakotay might love Ensign Paris, but it couldn’t go any damn where. It wouldn’t be ethical, and it wouldn’t be fair—to Paris or to the other members of the crew.

——

So the Ensign would have to act, instead. Because the Ensign— _Check that readout again, Paris_. —would seduce the Commander without worrying about protocol and policies on harassment. Paris could love Chakotay—hell, probably _did_ love Chakotay, the witty, intelligent, charming, irritating, frustrating annoyance—as intensely as he wanted to, without even thinking about impropriety, because for reasons unknown Chakotay had moved to the center of his life.

——

Chakotay could love Paris only in his mind, in the ghost-images of the ship’s imagination. He could love Paris—hell, probably _did_ love Paris, the irritating, annoying, frustrating, funny, intelligent charmer—as intensely as it was in his heart to love, only not in real life.

And that was also the real issue. This, too, is Starfleet.

——

And Starfleet could just go to hell.

——

“Janeway to Chakotay.” Her voice was joyful and triumphant.

“Chakotay here.”

“We’re starting on the last of the gelpacks, Commander. Almost done.”

“Great!” Chakotay looked at Paris, smiling at readings he saw, with a catch of the heart.

Done.

——

Not quite. Paris sat alone at one of the long tables in the dim mess hall, stretched, looked out at the stars. Not quite. Getting there. He could tell.

Chakotay’s eyes carefully not on him at breakfast—supper really. Everyone who’d been up for over forty-eight hours had fallen into bed once the gelpacks were cleared and in place, and diagnostics had indicated _Voyager_ was good as new. And risen in time for—supper. And a staff meeting. Chakotay’s eyes carefully focused away from him there, too.

Now it was night on the ship, and Paris’s day off would probably be spent in bed. Without Chakotay. But he would get there. It was just part of some journey, from image to reality. He fiddled with his lunch.

Whose profile sparked those holoimages? In the long run, it didn’t matter, but still— If it was Chakotay’s, then Paris was home free; he would relentlessly pursue the Commander until Chakotay surrendered. Surrendered—damn, that word was erotic when it applied to Chakotay. But if the profile was Paris’s, then he had problems. It meant he was in this all alone, and in the wake of all those mental images—Chakotay naked in the bright waters of D’een, Chakotay naked against the black sands of Oashaneul—the very thought was excruciating.

When someone came in, Paris looked up. Chakotay. The Commander didn’t see him, didn’t look over at him, didn’t look up at all. Just ordered his lunch and took it out of the replicator and sat down with it. At the opposite corner of Paris’s table.

Chakotay started eating just as if he were alone.

Paris poked at his cold pizza, pushed away the plate, turned it clockwise 87 degrees, studied it. He crossed his arms on the table and watched Chakotay.

Chakotay stolidly ate about three leaves of whatever salad he’d ordered, and then shoved at the mess with his fork.

Time for the ensign to take command.

“Is it—you?” Paris’s murmur seemed loud in the quiet room.

Chakotay froze. Then he put down the fork and looked at Paris. “It could be.”

Moment, for Paris to start breathing again.

Then Chakotay asked quietly, “Could it be you?”

And Paris said, “Yes.”

He saw Chakotay’s quick intake of breath, saw the speculative gleam in the dark eyes, saw a hand uncurl as if to touch something, and saw it commanded to relax. They looked at each other across the table.

The commander wasn’t going to budge.

So Paris stood and moved to Chakotay’s end of the table and leaned across and kissed Chakotay gently on the mouth. From image to kiss.

It was different from what he expected, in the way every kiss is different from the way it is imagined. Chakotay froze for a second, and then started to kiss back, gently, tentatively. The full lips opened under Paris’s, and at that heady instant, Paris pulled back.

They stared at each other across the scant distance. Paris was breathing harder than the kiss really warranted, and he thought he heard Chakotay’s heart pounding as a distant echo of his own.

Then Chakotay cupped Paris’s head in his big hand and brought Paris’s mouth down to his own; and this was just final. Hot mouth on his, and Chakotay’s tongue sliding easily over his own. Chakotay’s thumb stroked Paris’s cheek over and over, driving him just about crazy; and Paris was just simply lost. He drew a sobbing breath when Chakotay pulled away, and if that solid body hadn’t been there to clutch, Paris would have fallen.

Chakotay got up, pulled him close. He was breathing as if he’d just run a kilometer. “Whose?” Chakotay gasped.

“Yours.” Because Chakotay’s quarters were closer, thank god closer; they’d never make it to Paris’s, Paris would just lose his mind first. From kiss to bed.

So, okay, it was Chakotay’s quarters, and the whole way there they strolled a discreet distance apart, even stopping so Ensign Blain could have Chakotay look at this really important report—really casual, just three Starfleet officers doing their duty—though Paris knew it just had to be obvious that he and Chakotay were off to his quarters to fuck each other’s brains out. Nobody seemed to notice, though, and when they got to Chakotay’s quarters, Paris hung back and followed him in just as if they were there to have a meeting or an argument. Just the ensign following his commander.

Then, once inside, Chakotay lost his nerve or something, darting forward to pick up this, rushing over to tuck that away, fidgeting on the other side of the room. “A drink?” he asked.

Some commanders just needed commanding.

Paris stepped forward and stayed Chakotay’s hand in the act of reaching for something else to put away. Chakotay’s face was sheepish—and apprehensive. So Paris kissed him.

That seemed to bounce him in the right direction again, though he pulled out, breathless, and said with a slightly apologetic air, “Ensign, you know, there’s every indication that we shouldn’t be doing this.”

My god— “There’s every indication that if we don’t, I’ll strip you, haul your ass to the nearest uninhabited planet, and have my way with you until you can’t walk. Commander.”

Chakotay’s grin was a mirror of his own. “Acknowledged. Ensign.”

That was just about enough of that. Paris grabbed Chakotay and shut him up with a kiss.

And that was just it. Rank just ceased to matter after that. Chakotay’s hands cradled his head, and Chakotay’s mouth plundered his; and then Chakotay’s mouth moved over Paris’s cheek, and Chakotay’s hands tilted Paris’s head back so Chakotay could kiss and tongue and nibble the side of Paris’s neck, all the way across his throat.

Shit. He was losing it fast.

And some sadist had designed the damned Starfleet uniforms, some celibate who couldn’t conceive that a man wearing one would ever need to be stripped for fucking. Paris’s hands fumbled on Chakotay’s tunic until Chakotay stopped him, grabbed both wrists in an iron hand, and pulled his own damn tunic off over his head with the other. And the shirt. Dropped Paris’s hands just long enough to slide the clothing off his arm, and then grabbed Paris’s hands to guide them up Chakotay’s smooth stomach, chest, slide them over his face. His eyes closed in pleasure.

All right.

Paris grabbed Chakotay’s head with both hands and brought him close for a bruising kiss. Chakotay laughed then, rumbling into Paris’s mouth, and his own hands got busy, yanking Paris’s shirttail out of his trousers, gathering the shirt and tunic in both hands, peeling them over Paris’s head and arms when Paris let go to breathe. They landed somewhere on the other side of the room.

Trousers were easy, and so was the underwear; but it was a law of physics—one of the first ones they taught you at Starfleet—that you had to take your boots off to take off your pants. And with Chakotay’s mouth on his nipple and hands kneading his ass, this was doubly difficult. Chakotay’s mouth was working its way down, and Paris’s knees melted. He rested both hands on Chakotay’s shoulders and toed off one boot; but halfway into the other, Chakotay’s mouth found his cock, and the pleasure was so intense, every other thing in the universe simply disappeared, except for his own half-choked groans. It was just Chakotay’s hot mouth, and his rough tongue, and his hands clutching Paris’s ass; and Paris grabbed Chakotay’s head and mindlessly rode.

But he wasn’t getting off that easily.

Chakotay let go and stood up, the heat in his eyes half mischief.

Fuck it. Paris kicked off the boot, trampled off his clothes, dragged off his socks, his eyes locked with Chakotay’s. Then he knelt in turn in front of that hard, dark cock—more beautiful even than he had imagined it—and put his mouth on its heat. Chakotay groaned, and his strong hands clutched Paris’s shoulders. Paris felt his thighs loosen.

He worked, he worked, tongue sliding over velvet heat, tasting the salt. One hand worked Chakotay’s balls, and the groans sharpened. Chakotay tried to spread his legs, couldn’t. Paris eased a finger of the other hand into Chakotay’s ass; and he heard a sharp intake of breath. Okay, Commander.

He pulled away, feasted on the sight of Chakotay helpless in pleasure: muscles straining, skin gleaming sweat, head thrown back, eyes closed and mouth open in anguished exultation. Paris rose, kissed the mouth, and Chakotay’s eyes opened. In those eyes was heat, and desire, and something that stirred Paris’s blood even more.

He guided Chakotay down, got him sitting on the floor, turned his back on him, cast a mischievous glance over his shoulder, and bent to grab one of Chakotay’s booted feet. Looked back over his shoulder again and wiggled his ass in invitation.

Chakotay laughed and fumbled his other foot to Paris’s ass. Pushed while Paris pulled—still laughing—laughing more when the boot Paris held slid off.

The other boot took longer: Chakotay’s naked foot against his naked ass unexpectedly made his head spin, especially when Chakotay languidly massaged him with it. But at last the boot was off, and pieces of uniform lay scattered across the floor, commander and ensign intermingled.

He turned to dive for Chakotay, who gasped, “Too old for the floor.”

So Paris pulled him to his feet, and it was the bed they stumbled for, mouths hard against each other, hands fumbling.

Bed was better, anyway: he loved bed, and the thought of Chakotay in it. They fell onto the bed, and for a blissful moment they kissed, legs tangled.

But they’d been so long getting here, they couldn’t last much longer; and hips moved against each other, cocks rubbing. Chakotay rolled him over, and Paris’s heels dug into the bed as his hips mindlessly bucked against Chakotay’s sweat-slick belly, his hands clutching Chakotay’s ass. Chakotay’s fingers were tangled in Paris’s hair, and his breathy cries against Paris’s neck added speed to Paris’s hips.

And then—

Chakotay jerked against Paris, wailing; and, feeling the wet heat of his release, Paris arched into an orgasm so intense, his entire body seemed to melt into his cry.

A moment when they hardly seemed to breathe.

And then Chakotay sprawled on top of him, eased himself off, gasping for air, heart thundering against Paris’s body. They sprawled bonelessly, gulping for oxygen, staring into each other’s eyes.

Oh, fuck. Fuck, oh, fuck. Paris touched Chakotay’s face with a shaking hand, ran his fingers through the sweat-drenched hair. Had anyone else’s eyes glowed so when they looked at him? The curve of the kiss-swollen mouth, the dazed look he knew was mirrored in his own face. This was better than any fucking hologram.

His fingers trailed down Chakotay’s smooth chest, into the smears of semen on his belly—theirs, mingled. Shit—they were both a sticky mess.

Chakotay yanked at the coverlet, crumpled and damp beneath them, and used it to swab Paris’s belly. Okay. So, the coverlet it was. He kicked it to the floor when they were done.

And still they looked at each other. My god. Hair tousled, sweat glistening on musky skin, heat and happiness mingled in the black eyes—Chakotay could set a man’s heart on fire. His fingers were warm on Paris’s face, easing down Paris’s nose, tracing the curve of his mouth. Paris kissed them as they passed. His own hand explored the hardness of Chakotay’s thigh, slid over the firm belly— He looked down at himself ruefully.

“I gotta work out more,” he said.

“Oh, I’ll work you out,” Chakotay said huskily, grinning, “I’ll work you out real good.”

Paris laughed, and their mouths came together, Chakotay’s hands on him gentle and firm; and before very long, Chakotay was bent over the side of the bed, gasping, as Paris thrust into him. It was a slow and easy ride, Chakotay arching beneath him, thrusting back and hissing his pleasure. Their fingers intertwined. The hard ass against his groin, the tightness and heat of Chakotay’s body, the knowledge of Chakotay’s pleasure— Paris arched in an orgasm less intense than the first, but no less sweet.

“I haven’t done that,” Chakotay gasped as they climbed back onto the bed, “in years.” His face glowed.

“I never figured you for doing it at all.” He hadn’t; Chakotay had always struck him as an on-top kind of guy.

“I like the variety.” Chakotay’s hands were on him again, as if they just couldn’t let go. “I don’t do it with everybody.”

His fingers found Paris’s mouth, and Paris sucked languidly at the tips. “So I take it I’m not your first,” he said around a mouthful of fingers.

Chakotay grinned. “Not even second. Couple of guys on Dorvan five, one at the Academy—” His grin faded; there were some bad memories there. “Fucked me helpless for two years, and he would never let me kiss him.”

“Stupid,” Paris said, leaning over to taste the sweet mouth.

“Scared,” Chakotay said when Paris pulled away. “Too intimate. Too close. Gave too much away.” He looked at Paris, and there was that in his eyes that said he was suddenly worried he was going too far, that opening himself up to Paris was going to boomerang and hurt him somehow.

“Stupid,” Paris said quietly. “Just stupid.”

And to prove it he rolled on top of him for a kiss that started at Chakotay’s smile and ended at that luscious cock, having included a lot of territory in between, Chakotay sighing and laughing gently underneath him. The cock was erect when Paris got there—Chakotay hadn’t come when Paris had earlier—and here the kiss got really deep, so deep it involved fingers and tongue and, eventually, his whole mouth and, finally, his throat, as Chakotay writhed and clutched and thrust and cried out and then came hard.

“Oh, god,” Chakotay was gasping when Paris had swallowed and could breathe again, “oh, my god.” He pulled Paris to him, hands fumbling over Paris’s body. “I’ve known a couple women who could do that, but never a man.”

Paris stretched out in Chakotay’s arms. “I don’t do it with everybody.” His fingers traced Chakotay’s tired grin.

“You better be here when I wake up. If you’re not—if you’re not, I will hunt you down, and I will drag you back here.” He was fading fast.

“With or without clothes on?” Paris asked contentedly; and the mischief in Chakotay’s grin followed him into sleep.

——

The stars outside the port streaked by at a comforting Warp 5. The rumble of the engines was low and steady, and so was the sound of Paris’s breathing in his ear. Chakotay watched the stars in sleepy contentment, stroking Paris’s back, arranging his mind to go back to sleep and trying to ignore a growing discomfort.

It couldn’t be ignored forever. Damn.

He eased away from the warm body and looked for a moment at the sleeping man tangled in the sheet. Beautiful sight: Paris relaxed and unaware, just a body in sleep, hair curled with dampness, mouth slightly swollen, a man completely relaxed after sex.

Chakotay went into the head, absently turning off the automatic lights, urinated and washed his hands. His image in the mirror was dim, a silhouette against streaking stars from the port behind him. The discomfort wasn’t just physical, and it was growing. He stared at his dim figure and asked, _What are you doing?_

What the fuck was he doing? Handing his heart to Paris was like handing it to Coyote: he’d swear to take good care of it, but after a while he’d forget, he’d ignore it or play with it like a toy until it broke. Which really wasn’t fair, because Paris wasn’t like that—not any more—or at least trying hard not to be like that; and even if he was, Chakotay was an adult, Chakotay would survive. It wasn’t what Paris could do to Chakotay’s heart that was the problem here.

Chakotay looked at the tousled man in the mirror, the man whose face was creased with sleep, whose mouth was bruised with kissing, whose hair was going gray, whose eyes were defiant. The problem here was, _You weren’t going to do this—remember?_

And there really were no excuses; he’d known what he was getting into. Those sidelong glances in the mess, those shoulders squared with purpose, those bright eyes calculating: he’d known Paris was going to harass him, seduce him, pursue him to the end of the Delta Quadrant, and beyond. If Chakotay let him. And Chakotay wasn’t going to let him. Chakotay was going to squash any notion that he should be harassed, could be seduced, would be successfully pursued, because it wasn’t ethical otherwise. It wasn’t Starfleet.

So, of course, he had to say, “Maybe,” when Paris asked, “Is it you?”

 _Chakotay, you big, dumb ox_. All this for sex.

But saying “Maybe” to Tom Paris was more than sex. The comfortable playfulness as they stripped, the joy in Tom’s face when he came, his own satisfaction in that man’s contented sleep were more than sex. Even so, destroying ship’s discipline, shredding the command structure for love, wasn’t much better. It wasn’t the way he’d been raised. You didn’t destroy the community to satisfy your own desires, even if the alternative was to break your heart.

Something moved behind him. Paris, stumbling to the head. He stared at Chakotay, blinked at him in the mirror, said, “Lights on half,” and staggered over to urinate noisily into the toilet.

Chakotay found himself chuckling and started to move away; but Paris shook, flushed, and blundered into him.

“Excuse me,” he said, trapping Chakotay against the sink with his body, while he washed his hands, dried them in the drier.

Chakotay seemed helpless to do anything but laugh, and Paris’s grin over Chakotay’s shoulder told him that was what he was after. Paris locked his arms around Chakotay, pressed against his back, and rested his chin on Chakotay’s shoulder so they could stare at themselves in the mirror.

“Midnight mirror musing doesn’t bode well,” Paris said, and though his voice was light, his eyes were wary. In the mirror, Paris’s face said to him, _Don’t hurt me_.

“I was thinking about love—and Starfleet.”

Paris’s mouth quirked at that; and in a stunned instant, Chakotay realized that Paris knew what he’d been thinking about, had known what he was going to say; then, in the next second, his brain said, _Of course: did you think you were the only one to eat those damned flowers?_ Beloveds know each other.

“Touchy combination,” Paris said. His body had stiffened.

“I’m not sure this—”

“—is a good idea,” Paris finished for him. Then he whispered, “I think you think too much.”

“Somebody has to.”

“Not about this. Starfleet protocol is pretty clear about ensigns and commanders, but—” The line of his mouth turned bitter. “—I was a lieutenant, remember? And well on my way to captain: probably would have made it before we were halfway across the Quadrant.” His grin sparked Chakotay’s. “Personally, though, I don’t think rank means as much here. On _Voyager_ , it’s mostly a title. I mean, Janeway enforces it, but she listens to me just as much as she listens to you. Here, it’s experience that counts. And all-around brilliance. Which makes me admiral to your commander, so I really outrank you.” When Chakotay smiled, Paris’s arms tightened. “Besides, do I listen to you now any more than I did when I was a lieutenant? I mean, really, Chakotay—I may have fewer pips and a smaller salary, but can you say I’m not the same lovable pain in the ass I was before?”

 _Don’t give in_ , said a voice inside him, but his heart was listening to Paris. “The others may complain I give you preferential treatment.”

“Hell, some people think I get preferential treatment now.”

 _What?_ Chakotay turned, opened his mouth to demand details.

Paris stopped him with a kiss. “Chakotay, somebody always thinks somebody else gets preferential treatment. Some people think I get away with murder because I’m the best pilot on the ship—and that was _after_ you lobbed a torpedo at me. I’ve been handling it. I’ll handle it if it comes up again. You and me in bed, sharing our lives—that’s not going to make as much difference to the crew as you seem to think. Unless we let it.” Paris had stopped smiling, stopped clowning.

But it would make a difference to Chakotay. “I’m your superior officer,” he said. “I could give the command that gets you killed.” Couldn’t Paris understand that?

“And I could make the mistake that gets _you_ killed.” Paris’s eyes were earnest. “Have you thought of that? An error in navigation, one wrong move on a hostile planet, and anything could happen. To the ship. To you. Believe me; I think of that every time I’m at the helm. But you trust me. And I know I can trust you. I do trust you.”

For a heady second, Chakotay looked into Paris’s eyes and knew he was seeing past the veneer of the practiced rogue into the sweet center of Paris’s soul; and that Paris trusted him, believed in him, maybe even loved him, with every ounce of energy and spirit he possessed. The knowledge was humbling.

“Besides,” Paris said, “even if you kick me out two minutes from now, I’ll feel about you exactly the way I feel right now. And I think you’ll feel just the same about me. It’s too late, Chakotay,” he said with a little smile. “It’s just too damn late.” Then the smile faded a little. “Isn’t it?”

The edge of misery surfacing in his voice cut Chakotay to the core. “Yes,” he said. “You are possibly the single most aggravating man in the galaxy, with the exception of Neelix when he’s trying to wheedle something out of me. But I seem to have fixed on you the way you fix on a star to steer the ship by.”

The glow in Paris’s face warmed him. It _was_ too late. It was just too damn late for his brain to command his heart, for his rank to command his brain. He would still destroy his soul, if _Voyager_ demanded it, but he couldn’t wantonly break Tom Paris’s heart. He rested his hands on Paris’s ass. “And to think you got a B in debating,” said Chakotay.

“Checking up? _You_ got an A minus.”

“I argued with the professor. And those grades are supposed to be confidential.”

There was that smile again: that I’m-Paris-I-can-do-anything smile that Chakotay sometimes wanted to knock right off his face. Or kiss off. He tried it. Yep: with a really good kiss, the smile just vanished.

He kissed Paris again, kept it going, grabbed him at the waist and walked him backward toward the bed, just a shade too fast. Paris stumbled, laughed into Chakotay’s mouth, clutched at him, as off balance as Chakotay felt. At the bed, Chakotay didn’t let up, showed no mercy, simply kissed him, kissed him, kissed him, kissed mouth, kissed face, kissed throat. You want this, you’ve got it. Paris’s gasps were half sigh, half laughing protest.

When Chakotay finished, they were stretched out on the bed. Paris, beneath him, smiled languidly. Chakotay kissed that smile; and then they began in again earnest.

Paris’s hands in his hair, and Paris’s mouth on his; and that smooth body arching beneath him. He knelt and cupped both hands around Paris’s ass, kneading, probing, while Paris gasped into his mouth and rubbed his hardening cock against Chakotay’s. His hands moved down Chakotay’s back, to clutch his ass and probe in turn.

For a blissful minute, they rode each other. But eventually they had to breathe.

“Ah, god,” Paris gasped. “Fuck me. Oh, damn it, fuck me.”

“You want it, you’ve got it.”

But Paris had to be kissed first, kissed thoroughly from half-closed eyes to foot flexing in pleasure. He moaned, stretched, kissed in turn, his hands finding the places that made Chakotay gasp with pleasure, his talented mouth engulfing Chakotay’s cock, licking it hard.

Mouth moving over the straining body, Chakotay felt drunk with the tang of Paris’s sweat, with the musk of his skin, with the fierce pumping of blood he felt against his tongue when he sucked at Paris’s cock, with the edge of Paris’s delighted whimpers. Oh, yes, it was very much too late.

He knelt above Paris. Hair darkened with sweat, dark cock erect, eyes unfocused, mouth soft with pleasure—Paris was a feast for the eyes. Paris spread his knees, fumbled for the lubricant.

Chakotay snagged it first. He slicked his fingers with lubricant, eased them into Paris. And, oh, Paris arched beneath him, groaning with need, and that was a wonder to behold.

Then Paris grabbed, spread slickness on Chakotay’s cock. He drew his knees to his shoulders, pleading mutely. Chakotay positioned himself, thrust.

And Paris’s cry of joy and pleasure at that smooth plunge into the tight heat was balm for the soul. Chakotay thrust again, looking down into the ecstatic face. He leaned, took Paris’s cock in his hand, felt Paris’s thighs tense, heard him hiss with pleasure.

He thrust, again and again, into that slickness, Paris’s heels bumping his shoulders; and as he thrust, he stroked the burning cock, slid it against his own belly as he rode.

Paris’s hands pleated the sheet beneath them; Paris’s eyes held his as they moved together; the heat in that gaze could ignite a dead warp core, but there was more in his eyes than just the heat of passion.

Mesmerized, Chakotay rode, Chakotay rode.

And then Paris cried out, jerking in Chakotay’s hand; and Chakotay was lost in the grip of that orgasm as he rode out his own.

And a long instant later he could see again, breathe again. He slipped from Paris’s body, collapsed beside him.

Of its own accord, his hand went to Paris’s face, to stroke it, to cradle it while they gulped air and stared into each other’s eyes.

“Too late,” murmured Chakotay.

Paris grinned. “Oh, yeah. Definitely way too late.”

Chakotay felt sleep tug at him, but it was hard to close his eyes on that face glowing with contentment. He reached for Paris’s hand, laced their fingers.

“I’ll be here,” Paris said.

“You better.” His eyes were closing of themselves.

“And _you_ better be here when I wake up,” Paris murmured. “You better be here, or I will hunt you down, and I will drag you back to bed.”

Chakotay mustered a smile. “With or without clothes on?”

Paris kissed him. “Whichever you prefer.”

He preferred— Oh, he would tell Paris later. They had plenty of time.

——

Plenty of time to tell him. _I have fixed on you the way you fix on a star to steer the ship by_. Paris propped his head on his hand to watch Chakotay slide into sleep. He smiled down at their laced fingers. _I have fixed on you—_

Chakotay saying, “I love you.”

Paris put his head on the pillow, watched Chakotay’s sleeping face in the light of passing stars. I love you. Pretty fucking frightening. Paris was as allergic to those words as Chakotay’s doltish lover had been to kissing. But, _I have fixed on you the way I fix on a star to steer the ship by_. He had fixed on Chakotay a long time ago, maybe from the beginning. Only, now to tell him— _I have fixed on you_ —only now to say it. From image to kiss, from kiss to bed, from bed to—

He closed his eyes. Still part of the journey left to go.

He’d get there by morning.

——

The night sky was a cold fire above her, the N’ka nebula stretching horizon to horizon and blazing with the fires of a million suns. Around her, fireflies blinked on, blanked out. Lightning bugs. That’s what they’d called them at home, when she was a child. Lightning bugs. And she’d chased them, to watch them light the closed cave of her fist before opening her hand to watch them rise again into the night sky.

Janeway stretched luxuriously in the slightly steaming waters of the tree house tub, feeling every tense muscle unknot in the heat. At last. Wonderful.

 _Kathryn Janeway, you have been a very naughty girl_. But maybe it hadn’t been her; after all, when she’d seen the readout, when she’d realized what it said, she’d asked the computer, aghast, “How many others on this ship show these—these tendencies?” And found that she wasn’t alone: 62 percent of the women, and 56 percent of the men shared her—ah, appetite. Putting Paris and Chakotay—hell, putting _any_ two male crewmen—together could have been anybody’s idea. Still, she felt guilty: she’d played out those images a dozen times in her head. _And, we said we weren’t going to do that any more, didn’t we?_

Because it was one thing to dream the improbable; it was entirely too much like voyeurism to imagine the certainty. Janeway’s heart twinged. It was a certainty—or would be. From the look in Paris’s eyes, it would be soon. Her jaw tightened at the flash of disappointment.

 _Oh, Kathryn, just quit it_. She looked up at the sky. Relax. Look at those stars. Try to find the binary the Adube called The Old One and Her Mate. She’d chased him with—a shoe? Janeway couldn’t remember—even after he’d run into the sky to get away.

She stretched again, eased out the kinks. She’d have to have Chakotay talk to Gerron, find out in some gentle way just how far his heroine-worship had— Stop it. You’re here to relax.

She settled back, rested her head on the ledge inside the tub. Looked up at the lightning bugs and the stars. Something she used to do as a child: lie on her back in one of those flat Indiana fields, staring up at the stars. Until the earth seemed to tilt beneath her, and she seemed to stand on nothing, gazing ahead at the starry sky surrounding her, surrounding the planet at her back and stretching before her, unimaginable distances, filled with wonders.

Janeway smiled and let herself relax. She looked up, she looked up; until everything shifted, and again she flew free.

**Author's Note:**

> This one came to mind hard on the heels of "Random Acts"—which may account for that green curtain.... When the first holoimage popped into my head, I was surprised to realize that Janeway was also there, and having a most—um—un-Captainly reaction. Would she react that way? Dunno—but a lot of very intelligent women would! I'd also love her tree house tub (if I can't have that other program she tries not to enjoy....) All the personnel in the story have appeared or been mentioned in epsiodes—but one. The hapless Samtha is me: I needed somebody incompetent and didn't want to malign anybody on the ship. Thanks to Alice for pointing out the psychological profiles. By the way, this story's dedicated to the fireflies outside my window, which were so lovely the summer I wrote this.


End file.
